Two Stories Intertwined

Two Stories Intertwined

Chapter 1: Bree

Harry fumbled for his glasses in the dirt. His hands touched the metal rim, and he rubbed them off before resting them on his nose, blinking twice, and opening his eyes. In fact, he opened his eyes just in time to see his left leg skittering off down the road. He made a lunge for it and grabbed its sneaker, which it then proceeded to squirm out of. He tried to get to his feet, realized he only had one, and began to wriggle painfully after his runaway limb.

As he did this, he realized that perhaps something had gone dreadfully wrong. This didn't look at all like the destination he had been aiming for on his apparation test. This thought ran around in his brain for a while, but then decided that the loose appendage was slightly more important, and waited for a more appropriate time.

The leg was incredibly fast for something so awkward, and what's more, it was getting its half of Harry's jeans dusty. Harry lunged for it again, and got it firmly around its knee. He gasped for air as it kicked him in the ribs.

"This is not my day," mumbled Harry to himself, provoking another kick from his leg.

He was proven correct when a few seconds later he was run over by nine black riders on nine black steeds galloping haphazardly down the road.

Five hours and two hundred yard of all-purpose magical surgical tape later, Harry stood up and examined the hoof shaped bruises all over his body. He looked down the road in both directions and thought about apparating the hell out of where ever he was. His leg twitched involuntarily and Harry decided he had done enough apparating for one day. He pulled out his wand, tried to look tough, and marched down the road in the direction of where he reasoned London must be.

In fact, Harry was nowhere near London. He was actually much closer to a small town called Bree. London, of course, didn't, and wouldn't ever exist in this world.

About five miles later at a weird flat-topped mountain, Harry decided he was hot, tired, and thoroughly annoyed with the instructors at the Apparation Academy. He kept trudging onward because there was nothing else to do.

It was quickly becoming dark and soon rain began to pour down on him. Huge puddle formed in the potholes that covered the road. Strangely enough, Harry's rain repelling charm wouldn't work.

He at last came to the gates of Bree. He walked up to the wooden doors, knocked, and-

"Who goes there?" asked a gravelly voice.

A peephole opened up about a foot over Harry's head.

"Oh," grated the voice, "it's one of the wee folks, is it?"

A peephole opened that was more or less at Harry's height.

"Haven't been seeing many hobbits round here, what with the dangerous folks out on the road," mused the old man who stared at Harry, "come in, come in, young master."

Harry gaped for a second, blanched, gaped again, and then went in. He tried to explain that he wasn't, had never been, or in fact heard of, a hobbit, but no one was listening. He wandered over to the fencing near the gate where a notice was pinned up.

While he was reading, four young boys about his age had a mild argument with the gatekeeper, then rushed in and off down the road.

Harry was still puzzling over where Mordor was and why the hell they were recruiting "villainous, murderous characters" when one of these dropped on his head.

"Hey!" he yelled, "gerroff, will you!?"

The black shape stood up and gaped at him.

"Frodo?"

"No," Harry explained slowly, as he felt the conversation begin to slip away from him, "no, it's Harry, actually."

The figure stared.

"Hey," started Harry, after a moment's pause, "have we met? On the road, you know?"

"No."

"Are you sure? Cuz I could've sworn that was you and your eight buddies who ran me over," Harry said, trying to squint evilly at the black clad figure.

"The nine..." murmured the figure, "I must go!" and with that he rushed down the street, flitting from shadow to shadow. Damn, thought Harry, it's awfully confusing here.

Harry wandered into an inn a little bit later, soaked through. He went over to the bar and had a thoroughly confusing conversation, which went something like this:

"Hey, Nob, look, it's another hobbit!"

"I'm not a hobbit."

"But of course you are! What can I get you?"

"Just a pepsi, please.

"Pepsi? Haven't heard that one before. Sorry, can I get you a pint?"

"No, that's quite alright."

Exasperated, Harry went to sit down at an empty table next to the four boys he had seen entering through the gate earlier.

"That man in the corner hasn't stopped staring at us since we entered, Mr. Frodo," one of them whispered to another. Pausing to look up, Harry noticed that the man in question was the same one who had fallen on his head just minutes ago. Leaning over to the table next to him, Harry whispered back.

"I think he was looking for you."

"I'd thank you to mind your own business," scowled the boy who had spoken. "Or me and Mr. Underhill will have to leave."

"I thought you said his name was Mr. Frodo."

"Never you mind! The point is we want to be left alone."

"Fine," growled Harry, and got up. He looked for somewhere to leave to, couldn't find anywhere, and promptly sat back down. He glowered around for a moment before he resumed listening to the boys' conversation.

"Well, I say we wait for the wizard for a week, and if he doesn't show up we go home. "

"We can't do that. There's nothing to say that they won't find us here."

"There's nothing to say they will."

"Oh, I'm going to get a pint."

"Fine."

The boy called Frodo/Mr. Underhill got up and left. Harry decided he would leave too and set out for the door. He had only gotten a few steps when he ran into a burly drunk leaning against a table.

"Sorry," apologized Harry sincerely, "I didn't see you"

"Shove off, halfling!" snarled the man as he pushed Harry into the person behind him.

The person happened to be Frodo. As he fell forward, he let out a cry of astonishment and then vanished. Harry, who was used to people disappearing at random intervals paid no heed-indeed, he was beginning to feel right at home, what with this talk of wizards and people vanishing.

However, everyone else in the pub noticed. There were loud gasps and the gurgles of those who had choked on their beer. As it began to reach mayhem, Harry again headed for the door. Again, he was unsuccessful.

About two feet from the exit he tripped over Frodo who was trying to hide under one of the tables. He came down with a crash, bruising his upper arm in the process.

"Oh no, it's you again," groaned Frodo. He looked up in time to see two nasty looking southerners leave the inn, giving him sideways glances. Harry thought they looked exactly like the type of people that Mordor was recruiting. He did not have much time to ponder this, however, because of the strong hand gripping his upper arm. He looked up.

"Oh no, it's you again," he groaned. However, the dark-clothed man ignored him. Instead, he addressed the boy Harry had tripped over.

"You draw far too much attention to yourself, Mr. Underhill," he said, spitting out the last words with malice and sarcasm. Harry felt himself thrown roughly against a table and then shoved up a flight of steps. He fumbled for his wand in his robe but was caught off guard when the man pushed him through a doorway onto the floor along with the boy.

"As for you," he growled, turning his attention to Harry, "you need to learn to keep your nose out of other people's business. What did you hear?"

"Nothing," stammered Harry, "except I did catch that this boy is waiting for a wizard. Perhaps I can help him with that?"

"Boy!?" erupted Frodo, "I'm no boy, I'm 50 years old!"

"What?"

"I'm a hobbit, not a human!"

Harry was now very confused. He looked up to see the man shaking his head. He seemed to be having troubled coping with the craziness of the situation.

"Will someone," asked Harry politely, If impatiently, "please explain to me what a hobbit is."

"This," grunted the man, pointing to Frodo, "Is a hobbit. Anyway- as I was saying- you can no longer wait for the wizard Frodo- they are coming."

"Who?" asked Frodo

"Am I, maybe, the wizard you are waiting for?" said Harry

"No."

"Oh."

"Who?" repeated Frodo

"This," continued the man, "is not working out the way it is supposed to."

He looked thoughtful for a moment, and then continued on an entire different thread of conversation.

"Are you frightened?"

"Yes," answered Frodo.

"No, not really," countered Harry. The man glared at him, then turned to Frodo.

"Not nearly frightened enough," he said menacingly, "I know what hunts you."

At that moment, the other three hobbits burst in on them. They were disheveled, small, and now that Harry looked closely at them, clearly not boys. For one, their ears were slightly floppy like a dog's and their shoeless feet were covered in thick hair. They wore pants that looked too short for them and vests that were too baggy. One of them had his fists up.

"I'll have you, longshanks!" he shouted at the man.

The man looked annoyed. This clearly hadn't been his day, and Harry could relate. In a flash of steel he drew his sword. Harry lunged again for his wand before he realized that the sword was quite broken.

"Useless, isn't it Sam?" he addressed the hobbit, "for it is the sword that was broken. But soon it shall be reforged."

Harry wondered why he was telling them this, because it failed to have any effect on the hobbits what so ever. Sam and Frodo looked confused. So did the other two. The man sighed heavily and resheathed his sword.

"Well," said Frodo, "I'd best be going back to my room now.

"Me too," agreed Harry, making a break for the door. A heavy hand clenched his collarbone, and he tried desperately to disapparate. Sadly, he ended up about two feet away from where he had been, and five feet off the ground. With a crash he hit the floorboards. All three of the hobbits backed away but the man on the other hand looked curious.

"You are," he stated, "a wizard then?"

Harry nodded reluctantly.

"Good. You can come with us. "

"Where, out of curiosity," asked Frodo, "are we going?"

The man looked like he was going to try another noble line but then thought better of it. It clearly wasn't worth the effort.

"Look," he said desperately, "you are being chased by black riders, correct?"

They all nodded.

"They are the ringwraiths, the Nazgul, neither living nor dead. Sauron the deceiver gave to them nine-"

"Sauron the who?" interrupted Harry

"Never mind. The point is they are very bad. And they will find you and take the ring from you and you will probably end up worse off. So I, Strider, am taking you to Rivendell."

Harry was very confused and he said so, but Strider just said something about needing a beer and left, locking the door behind him.

The hobbits refused to talk to him, and indeed moved as far away from him as the little room would allow. Harry brooded silently in the corner, writing messages in the dust that covered the floor. A little while later he curled up and fell asleep out of sheer boredom.

At some ungodly hour of the morning Harry woke up. His neck was hurting from his uncomfortable position on the wooden floorboards. In the corner Strider, illuminated by the fire in the hearth, sat glumly staring out the window into a starless night. The hobbits were asleep in the opposite corner of the room. They were shivering because of their distance from the fire, but it was clear to Harry that they regarded him as a demon or something. Hobbits, he thought.

He wondered for a moment what had woken him, but it became clear to him in a matter of seconds. A horrible screeching noise was coming from the floor below him, and there was the terrible feeling Harry sometimes got when faced with dementors. Slowly, one by one, the hobbits in the corner opened their eyes and struggled to their feet, looking bewildered. Strider over in his corner looked calm and conserved. Harry noticed that he was no longer wearing his hood. He definitely was roguish and mangy looking, but he had a noble air about him. His hair was shoulder length and horribly messy like Harry's, and he had a sparse beard.

The screeching sounds continued, and Harry wrenched his gaze away from Strider's face and instead directed it at the floorboards.

"Dementors?" he asked.

"No, Nazgul," replied Strider.

"Oh."

The hobbits had come over, and while they were eyeing Strider with distrust and Harry with something vaguely like horror, they had clearly gotten up their courage.

"What are they?" asked Frodo. Harry thought that they had already established this, but he couldn't be sure.

"Nazgul, ringwraiths, neither living nor dead. They were..."

Harry tuned out. He had the feeling that he had already heard this. The sounds below him amplified, and now he could hear furniture being tossed around. Somehow, he didn't feel very safe. Here he was, in a small space with three tiny people, a man with a broken sword, and only four years of magical training. He did not think he could handle this situation. He went back to sleep.

Chapter 2: Weathertop

The next day dawned with even less hope. The black riders had literally torn the inn to pieces looking for Frodo (Harry assumed that the hobbit owed them money or something). The hobbits were nervous and jittery. Harry knew which ones were Frodo and Sam, but he could not for the life of him tell the other two, Merry and Pippin, apart. Strider had suggested that Pippin was the more talkative of the two, but since none of them ever talked to him, his efforts were futile.

They set out shortly after daybreak for god knows where. Harry could only assume that he had landed in one of the hidden places, like Diagon ally, where muggles could not go. He blamed his ignorance of hobbits and Nazgul on the short amount of time that he had lived in the wizarding world.

They traveled across marshes and over plains. Harry, who had never had to travel long distances on foot, began to lag. He had nothing to fear though, for the hobbits were far more worse off them him. He had noticed that they seemed slightly chubby. When they did talk it was about food. They lagged worse and worse and finally refused to go further without afternoon tea. Strider turned around, frustrated.

"Do you hear that?" he asked, a cruel glimmer in his gray eyes

The hobbits were befuddled. No, they answered.

"That," he continued, "is the sound of silence. No birds, nothing. And why? Because there is something evil abroad. If it finds you, you will never see your precious hobbit holes again. There will be no more tea."

Then he turned and continued up the trail. Harry felt his blood run cold and he hurried to follow. He wondered if this was some plot of Voldermort. What if they weren't looking for Frodo at all? What if he was their target? He shuddered violently. Broken sword or no, he felt that it would be best to stick near Strider.

On the road that day, he tried hard to converse with the hobbits. He wanted to know why they were being pursued. He did find out a little.

"So, Frodo, why are these guys after you?" he began.

"The ring. They want the ring," mumbled Frodo, skittering sideways when Harry spoke.

Harry looked confused, so Frodo elaborated. Harry was dimly aware of Sam on his other side. He was glaring at Harry, who had the feeling that Sam was fiercely protective of Frodo.

"The ring. The one. It's his, you know?" Frodo looked very distressed.

"Whose?" tried Harry, still confused but still convinced that Frodo owed someone a large amount of money. However, he never found the answer, because Sam had begun to bare his teeth. Harry moved in order to not get dismembered.

Later that evening they stopped at the flat-topped hill Harry had seen on his way to Bree. Strider went off to scout or something and Harry went to set up the bedroll that Strider had given him. The hobbits lit a fire and began to cook something.
Night fell. It was eerie up on the hill, among the ruins and Harry could see miles in all directions. He looked off the way they had come, along the serpentine line of the road. He dimly became aware that mist was rising from bogs on all directions. He watched the road intently, a feeling of rising terror creeping up in his chest.

Along the road came five black figures moving fast. They seemed to cut through the mist.

"Out!" shouted Harry at the hobbits, "put it out!"

He ran over and smothered the fire with his feet, to no avail. He could smell burning rubber and canvas. He swore, then extinguished the flames quickly with a simple spell. The hobbits looked at him in awe.

"What?" he said grumpily.

He turned and looked back towards the road. The riders were gone. It was again silent. He thought he heard something climbing up the trail.

"Get down!" he whispered harshly to the hobbits. Harry, who did not have much experience with Nazgul, crouched to the ground. His fingers found and wrapped tightly around a rock. He could now here footsteps coming around the corner. He knelt and waited.

A black robed figure came into view. Harry leaped up, smashing the rock against its forehead. It let out a small cry of surprise and fell with a thud to the ground. Harry dragged it over nearer to the center of the flat top.

It was Strider. Harry groaned and the hobbits glowered at him.

"Stupid human," they said, then went to find tinder to light another fire.

Harry, however, was still uneasy. He thought he heard the rustling of cloaks against the ground, and then the striking of metal boots against the rocks. He turned this way and that. Even the hobbits looked uneasy now. They had given up on their fire and were now trying desperately to awaken Strider, every now and then shooting disapproving glances at Harry.

The first rider appeared through the mist. Harry backed up, his eyes widening as four more appeared after him, swords drawn. Harry's mind was at a blank. He was cold and numb with horror, though not totally incapacitated as he had been with the dementors. The hobbits squeaked and backed up with Harry.

"Wait," said Harry, "wait."

The riders turned their empty gazes on to him.

"Would someone please explain why you are after us? Please?"

The hobbits rolled their eyes. For a moment there they had thought he might say something intelligent or useful.

"Garshhh.." explained the first Nazgul

"Narggggg...." Elaborated the second

"Grraggg...." Continued the third, fourth, and fifth in unison.

"Oh," said Harry, "in that case..." he struggled to think of something to say after that.